


Collusion

by Murreleteer



Category: Always Crashing in the Same Car (2007)
Genre: Blackmail, Blowjobs, Canon is your warning, D/s, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Exhibitionism, Forced Masturbation, M/M, Nonnies may not be entirely to blame, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murreleteer/pseuds/Murreleteer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill blackmails James into a hotel room and makes James talk dirty to him while he jerks off. As the situation escalates, James finds it increasingly disturbing, and increasingly compelling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collusion

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my fellow nonnies for the cheerleading. <3 Tiny accidental fandom fest is go!
> 
> For anyone unfamiliar with the canon, [Always Crashing In The Same Car](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxhjnzagvWc) is a 10-minute short film starring Paul McGann and Richard E. Grant (see above link).

The carpet is a scuffed burgundy-grey beneath his feet, the walls a sickly beige, and the bed is covered in a harsh, ugly abstract pattern. Sleazy. Rooms by the hour. Every element selected to remind James of filth and secrets. His hands clench at his sides, eyes flick to the clock on the wall, ticking harshly down the seconds. He's the Prime Minister, why in God's name is he here? 

Just this morning he'd been doing so well. Nearly human, nightmares dimmed to background anxiety by sleeping pills and three cups of coffee before his morning briefing. And then Bill's voice low in his ear, _Eight p.m., room 103,_ and an address. James had felt his stomach twist as he registered the almost gentle purr in Bill's voice. The bastard hadn't even bothered with a threatening tone. The pen in Bill's pocket, the startling blue of today's tie, Bill's faux-friendly smile, and James had twitched his way through three meetings and four hours of paperwork, dread knotting tighter in his chest with each passing minute. 

He stands inside the door to the cheap hotel room, a marionette with its strings tangled, his limbs all wrong beneath the expensive suit and his mouth dry as sandpaper. His face contorts into a rictus as he forces words out. "Bill. To what do I owe the fucking pleasure?" 

Bill's sprawled at the chipped table, legs stretched out in the only good chair as if it were the leather couch in his ostentatious glass-walled office. His pale cold eyes take in James's trembling bravado and his mouth twitches under that awful beard. "I hope you didn't drive yourself." 

"You cunting _bastard_ \--" James grits out. He takes one furious step into the room before the look on Bill's face stops him cold. 

"Ah, Jimbo," Bill drawls, teeth sharp inside his smile, "I'm sure you don't want to do anything imprudent." 

"Imprudent--!"

"Take off your suit." Bill's fingers curl over the arm-rest of the chair, caressing it like it's the closest he's come to a woman in years. 

James stares at him, jaw working. "You're out of your fucking mind."

"Whores by the hour, Jimbo, or don't you know where you are?" He loosens the bright blue tie around his neck, and the hand around the thin arm-rest gives a rolling twist, horribly suggestive.

It takes James nearly a minute to persuade his fingers to loosen enough to unbutton his jacket. "Of course," he spits, "that's the only way you get your dick wet. No one would go near your bloodless husk if they weren't paid."

"And yet here you are." Bill's thighs are parted, more aggression than invitation, and yes, yes he's hard. James doesn't want to look but he can't seem to keep his eyes away. He can feel the skinny bastard's gaze crawling up his back as he lays the jacket across the bed. 

"I'm to suck your shrivelled cock, is that it?" The sneer falls limp from his lips, unable to disguise his shiver as he peels back his shirt, unbuckles his designer trousers. 

Bill's voice goes suddenly hard. "Don't try initiative, Jim. It doesn't suit a man in your position." 

A man in his underwear in a shoddy rented room, grit scrunching between his toes, with absolutely everything to lose. 

"Come here," says Bill, after a long, tortuous moment in which he drags his gaze all over James's body, committing every humiliating facet to memory. "No. On your knees."

James chokes, and bites his tongue so hard he's surprised he doesn't taste blood. The carpet bites into his knees as he shuffles the two metres towards Bill. When he stops he's close enough that Bill can nudge him in the leg with the tip of his leather shoe, prod him until he shifts the way Bill wants him. On his knees like a dog, face dripping with sweat and shame. 

When he looks up, Bill's hand is right in his line of vision, giving himself a generous squeeze. 

"You talk an awful lot about my body," Bill says. "I think you'd better continue, Jimbo." 

His bleary confusion must show on his face, because Bill's smirk deepens and he deigns to enlighten him. "For the good of this nation, you had better open your mouth and tell me something to get off to." 

He wants to tell Bill exactly where to stick it, but Bill slides his fingers down the length of his tie, shopping-bag blue, and the words collapse in his throat. 

"You--you're better than me," he starts. What can he say to get this over quickly? "Smarter. Fitter." 

Bill laughs at him. His lips peel back around his white teeth, and he prods him again with his shoe. "To think your adoring constituency hangs on every fucking word." But his fingers trace his cock through his trousers, the erection disrupting the pinstripes he thinks make him look so powerful. He reaches for the buckle of his belt. "Try again." 

"Y-you're the boss," James stutters. Bill's toe comes up between his legs and presses up under his balls. He swallows, flinches away on instinct, and the shoe presses harder. 

"You need me," prompts Bill. His cock is in his hand now, and James doesn't want to watch but when he looks away the pressure against his balls increases. So he stares mesmerized as Bill pumps his cock, an intimate, filthy slide and grip.

"I need you," he repeats. His legs are shaking and he wants to sit back on his heels, wants to sit up and wipe the sweat off his face, but he doesn't dare move. "I--I need your input. Your strong hand directing policy." 

Bill snorts. "A little more sodding passion, Jimbo. It's not a budget briefing. Or would you rather we do this then?"

The words are already lined up in James's head, and they collide with the image of Bill stripping him like this at the front of some meeting. Before the floor-to-ceiling windows--he makes a painful, wretched sound in the back of his throat that sounds far too much like a moan. He clamps his lips shut, but too late. "I need you telling me what to do, Bill." 

Bill's bony hand tightens around his cock. His eyes are heavy-lidded and his tongue flicks out over his lips. The roaring in James's ears isn't arousal, it's _not_ , but he is breathing harder and he rubs himself against Bill's foot without thinking. Bill's free hand lashes out and grabs him by the hair, jerking his head back harshly, that mocking sneer back on his face. He tugs, and James whimpers at the pain. 

When he crawls forward so Bill won't pull his hair out by the roots, his cock and balls drag along the laces of Bill's shoe, up across his ankle until he's riding Bill's leg. He stifles the groan in his chest and keeps talking. "I'd be nothing without you. You've made me everything I am." 

Bill's hand is moving faster on his cock, and James can feel the leg beneath him begin to tense up. The carpet digs into his own knees and he can't stop thinking of Bill doing this where anyone could see them. If Bill wanted to fuck him in the high street there's no way he could stop him. 

"You want it," rasps Bill. 

James squeezes his eyes shut. He is rutting against Bill's leg now like the dog he is. "I want--I want it, Bill. You're the boss, you deserve to be the boss, you've got a bigger cock than me, I want it--" 

Bill comes with a harsh breath, yanking James forward by the hair so that hot drops of cum hit him across his cheeks. He holds him trapped between his knees with Bill's fist knotted in his hair and the smell of his emissions in his nostrils, while Bill's cock jerks and his adam's apple bobs. 

Then he sends James sprawling backwards with a great shove. James tumbles to the floor, head smacking hard enough to daze and limbs flying akimbo. His own erection tents his underwear, rigid and humiliating. 

A well-shod foot prods his thigh, and he twitches in response, hips jerking into the air in a depraved arc. His face is hot, his underarms soaked with cooling sweat, and Bill has zipped up and stands over him in his fastidious Italian suit. 

"Clean yourself up," he says. "Have a frantic little wank if you like. The room's rented another twelve minutes." 

And he steps over James's prone body. James hears his tread recede across the floor. The turn of the latch gives him a sudden sick shock of fear that someone may be passing in the hall to see him like this. And then he is alone with the filthy carpet pressed into his cheek and the stink of Bill's fluids on his face. 

He crawls onto the cheap bedspread and jerks off furiously to the sound of his own half-sobbed breaths.

* * *

Days pass, then weeks, and Bill says nothing, does nothing out of line. In meetings where they're both present, James catches Bill watching him, a little flick of the eyes and tilt of the head that lets him know he's still prey, but there are no phone calls, no threats, and Bill doesn't even stage a rebellion against any of James's policy initiatives. James becomes hyper-conscious of where Bill is at any given moment, what his facial expressions are, how he's sitting or standing, to whom he's speaking.

Two weeks in, he sees a private meeting on his calendar--just him and Bill, at a godforsaken hour of the morning at the end of the week. He curses under his breath. For five minutes he paces his office, running through excuses until he has exhausted all of them. He lifts the phone to blister his secretary's ear for letting Bill near him, then realizes how utterly mad he would sound. When he falls back into his chair, defeated, he's half-hard. He can hear Bill's dirty chuckle in his ear. 

He spends three days working himself up to face his tormentor, seeing Bill's face whenever he closes his eyes, feeling his hands in his hair as he lies beside Mary at night. 

Twelve hours before his doom, the meeting disappears from his calendar as if it had never existed. 

Mary has gone to visit her sister when he gets home. He gets blind drunk, but it only makes him maudlin and horny. When the image of Bill's smirk comes up again, _whores by the hour, Jimbo_ , his hand strays to his own cock and he doesn't stop it. He tells himself it's from relief but he knows he's escaped nothing.

He does it again the next afternoon, slipping into his private restroom at the office. Then in the car, an hour before Mary comes home. The restroom again at the close of the day, beating his cock until he's sore, always with the memory of Bill's foot beneath his balls, Bill's shiny red dick sliding through his tight fingers. He sinks to the tiled floor when he comes, trousers tangled at his ankles, and for a few minutes the self-inflicted debasement is enough to clear his mind. 

His hands are damp from the washbasin when the phone rings. A male voice is breathing irregularly on the other end, and James's knuckles go white around the handset as he recognizes the words.

_"Y-you're the boss. I need you. Your strong hand...I need you telling me what to do, Bill. I'd be nothing without you. You've made me everything I am. You're the boss, you deserve to be the boss, you've got a bigger cock than me, I want it--"_

His own voice has been turned into a pornographic whimper, a succession of sexually abject pleas. The recording seems to go on forever. It loops back to the beginning and plays again, this time with slightly different editing, different stress. He wonders if Bill could make him seem to say anything he liked, with just a few more tweaks of the sound.

_"You've got a bigger cock than me, I want it--"_

The phone cuts out. His breath is shallow and the receiver dangles from his hand. The words twist through his brain until he is swallowing the taste of Bill again, can almost feel the weight of the cock he's never had in his mouth, and _Bill made a recording_. 

The second phone on his desk rings, a shrill jolt of sound. 

"I think we ought to reschedule," says Bill.

* * *

This time it's an office block in a good part of the city, twenty-three floors up with a view of the urban jungle. There are several young businessmen in the lift for the first dozen floors, iPhones pressed to their ears, oblivious to the presence of a strung-out middle-aged man in a suit. Perhaps they don't vote.

Bill is facing the floor-to-ceiling windows when James walks in and James has a sudden urge to shove him through the plate glass. 

"You'll want to lock the door," Bill says without turning. It's the closest to mercy he's going to get, James suspects, thinking of the men in the lift. By the time he's shot the deadbolt home Bill is leaning against the desk, looking James up and down. He's done something to his hair--washed it, perhaps--and today's suit makes him look less of a skinny stick than usual. James's collar is already sticking to his neck with cold sweat. 

"Like the view?" Bill asks. The sun glints off the thick ring on his finger as he gestures at a panorama of financial London that would make God jealous. 

"Cut the chit-chat," James snaps, knowing as he says it that it'll cost him. "You don't get to play innocent with me, not now, Bill." 

Bill's smile widens. "Innocent," he purrs. "Really, Jim?" He watches James blanch. "While we're debating your Freudian slips, why don't you slip into something a little more comfortable." 

"I fucking hate you," James snarls. The bottom is falling out of his stomach again. He can already see himself crawling across the inch-thick plush carpet. At least his knees won't hurt when Bill fucks his mouth. 

"I know," says Bill. "Take it off." 

He is down to his underwear when he looks up and realizes that the curtains are wide open and the view looks out on hundreds of other windows, also wide open. He looks up into Bill’s mocking eyes, just as Bill says, “Those boxers look like shit. Take them off.”

He goes dizzy for a moment, the edges of his vision crinkling grey-white, his chest so tight he can't breathe. But his hands are moving with horrid inevitability, as if they don't belong to him. The silk slides down his calves; he stumbles over it as he tugs it past his heels. He's half-kneeling, the cant of his thigh not enough to cover himself, not enough to keep Bill from seeing his incipient erection. 

The desk is offset from the window enough that Bill is invisible to anyone watching their little tableau. But James has nowhere to hide. He crouches in the sunlight, bared before countless possible eyes, secretaries and accountants and fucking lobbyists on lunch, curious window-washers and perverted CEOs.

"Get up," says Bill. He gives a short imperious jerk of his chin, cocking his suited hip against the desk, clearly enjoying himself. For once he towers over James, and it's that thought that drags James to his feet. 

The extra six inches in height does very little for his pride when he's stripped stark bollock naked, when Bill Mackinnon is laughing, little huffs of breath through his sardonic smile. Bill slides his hand down his chest to the hem of his jacket, mirroring the awkward clasp of James's hands over his dick and balls, and then he squeezes, nostrils flaring in pleasure. 

James bares his teeth, hands contracting into fists in furious instinct. Bill's lip curls, his eyes drop to James's crotch. "It's good you were honest with me, Jimbo." 

"What?"

"I do have a bigger prick than you." 

Of course Bill has noticed. The fucker's probably been eyeing James up for months, trying to find some puny satisfaction in the plain biological fact. For a moment he's glad of the erection bobbing half-heartedly between his legs--until sunlight glints off a window in his peripheral vision and he remembers that he's on display for all of London. 

James forces his body to remember the way the Prime Minister moves. He shifts carefully so his back is to the window, moving as nonchalantly as if he were still armoured in layers of expensive wool. His breath comes out between his teeth in a hiss. The locked office door mocks him, doing nothing at all to protect him from the eyes across the street.

Bill's eyes flash. "Turn back around, Jimbo. You don't move unless I say." 

Terror makes his breath short, makes his hands clammy, makes his dick ache with the throb of his pulse. His knees lock as he tries to move, but slowly he turns back to face the window full-on, hands still fisted at his sides and absolutely everything on parade. 

A bird flutters by and he wonders if he'll have time to duck if a news helicopter soars over the top of the next building. It's Bill's job to clean up scandals, not involve him in them, but to his panic-stricken mind the limits Bill's set for himself are not at all clear. 

He hates Bill for making him do this. For making him grateful that it will only be a couple of minutes before he can drop to his knees and crawl over to suck his oh-so-much-bigger cock. He wants to ask how long he's to wait but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. 

"Touch yourself," Bill says. 

James is so convinced that Bill's expecting a blowjob that the words don't quite register. The hot flush all over his body turns ice cold. His head whips around to stare at Bill, and the smirking bastard hasn't even loosened his tie. 

"Don't make me. Bill. Don't make me do it." He doesn't even care that he's begging. 

And Bill runs his fingers over his cock again, stroking his hard-on not to James's naked body but to the desperation on his face. 

"I'm trying to be fair, Jim. I thought you'd appreciate that." His eyes drift over the sparse hair on James's bare chest, flick dismissively over his prick and his tense thighs. "Take a deep breath and wrap your hand around it." 

James swallows, bites back a pitiful moan. He's hard and dazed and he can't deny that Bill's voice has accompanied every wank he's had for the last week. 

The first stroke of his hand makes his knees buckle. He shuts his eyes against the sunlight, against the revealing glass yawning in front of him. Bill times his next words to the moment James's fingers brush the swollen head of his cock. "Say your favourite three little words." 

James gasps, the dark voice like lightning along his nerves. His back arches and his hand fists tighter on his dick. "Y-you're the boss, Bill." 

"That's four." He hears the shift of cloth against wood, then the weight of Bill's footsteps sinking into the thick carpet. 

"You're the boss," James whimpers. 

Bill's hand catches him at the back of his neck, squeezing, compelling him forward. One step, two, three, until he's inches from the glass. Till all he can see in all directions is the windows, the eyes, a panorama of voyeurs bearing witness to his shame. 

Bill's voice growls in his ear. "You can't get it up without me any more, can't wank without being told." 

James snuffles, cock hard as steel, fist jerking wetly and too tight over his shaft. He can feel the wool of Bill's suit all along his naked back, his erection a hard line against his arse. 

"Please," James snivels.

Bill shoves him hard against the window. His hands fly up to catch himself and his hips slam into the cold glass. Bill's fingers are a vice on his neck, smushing his face into the pane. "You get what I give you, Jimbo. You're wholly fucked without me. They'll watch you burn and they'll laugh." 

He grinds his cock against James's arse again, steps back and watches James crumple to the carpet. And James is still hard, through the tears in his eyes and the terror in his throat. 

"Smile for your fucking public," Bill says. 

James wants nothing more than to bury his face in the dark navy of Bill's thigh and _not be here_ , but he reaches for his aching cock and tugs, mouth falling open and balls drawing up. He comes with a wrenching spasm all over the bright, clean glass, shaking, biting his inner cheek to keep his moan from reaching Bill's ears. 

"You filthy cunt," Bill murmurs, low-voiced, shaking his head in grudging applause. "Lick that off my windows." James shudders at the taste of his own cum, cooling on the windowpane, and the sound Bill makes behind him has a orgiastic resonance that sears itself into James's brain. 

Later, when he's cleaned up, when Bill's let him duck into the lavish suite's attached bath and wipe his face, when he's walking down the street and trying not to let his legs tremble, he looks up and he can't even find the right window. The walls of glass look all the same, and he can't see into any of them from here. He can almost convince himself that his exhibitionism was all Bill's sleight of hand. 

His hands don't shake when he gets into the car, his voice is calm and smooth as he instructs the driver. 

There's an email waiting back at the office, addressed to James and copied to Mary. The body of the message is a snapshot of the London skyline from twenty-three floors up. 

_Thought you'd like the view. I've signed the lease this morning._

* * *

He hopes for another long reprieve, but he doesn't get it. The next evening finds him at an arts benefit, Mary on his arm and a smile pasted tightly to his face. As each wealthy patron spins by in a haze of glitz and networking, he can't help scanning their expressions for tells. He fabricates looks of horrified censure in his peripheral vision, imagines every whispered confidence contains prurient details of his exposure.

By the time he's offered his first glass of wine, his shoulders are tightly knotted and his jaw hurts from his fixed grin. He relaxes minutely when Mary drifts into the sea of faces and he doesn't have to mimic bliss quite so well. He can feel all the seams of his clothing as he moves, cuffs chafing his wrists, his collar too tight, the exquisitely expensive pair of new underwear riding up and pinching in all the wrong places. He loses so many threads of conversation in his attempts at small talk that he can almost see the ripples of gossip spreading out through the crowd. 

It is not a relief when he hears Bill's voice behind him, but he lets out a pent-up breath anyway. 

He does not turn. He is the Prime Minister and he does not have to acknowledge a PR lackey who properly ought to be under _his_ thumb. Bill's voice cuts low through the chatter as he makes a sardonic comment to the woman next to him. Some celebrity; James doesn't give a fuck about her name, just as Bill doesn't give a fuck about what anyone thinks of him. And yet somehow the little freak has everyone eating out of his hand. Bending over to take a reaming. Kneeling down to suck his--

Someone laughs, high and sharp, and James startles back to himself. The wine in his glass sloshes up the side and he curses his choice of red. He searches for a napkin to blot the spreading stain on his cuffs. He snaps at the caterer hovering at his shoulder, sees the young man flinch before he smooths his face into a polite mask. 

He is handing back the wet linen, grimacing an apology, when fingers settle on his wrist. 

Bill takes the napkin from James's suddenly nerveless fingers. His eyes flick to the red-spattered white cloth, then to James's face. Then to the crowd over James's shoulder. James must look sick, because Bill inhales as if at a fine cologne.

Bill's other hand settles on his shoulder, the gesture congenial, the fingers bruisingly tight. "If I could have a word," he murmurs.

James nods mutely. His skin prickles all over as Bill guides him through the ranks of guests. His clothes grow tighter, the ache in his cock beginning anew. The brush of Bill's fingers on his coat sleeve might as well be the choke of a leash around around his throat. 

There's a dim quiet hallway near the gents', and Bill has him up against the wall before he can draw breath. James feels the invisible leash tighten, a red line of heat from his neck all the way down to his balls.

"You think you can ignore me, Jimbo?" Bill says conversationally. 

"Bill--" He hates himself for the groan at the end of the word.

"I'd like you to show some respect." Bill's arm is across his chest, body weight behind it, and the other hand grabs roughly between his legs. He grins like a shark when he finds James already hard. 

"You little shit." His hot breath gusts across James's neck. His grip on James's cock tightens, forcing a high shallow breath from James's throat. James's hands reach up to push him away but only succeed in spasming around Bill's lapels. 

"I know what you are, Jimbo. No one else does. Your cheap mask of confidence is slipping by the hour, but I'm the one who keeps them from noticing. Even Mary doesn't know what excites your pathetic little prick."

Guilt and shame wash through him in a hot flood that makes his hips jerk up into Bill's grip. He turns his face away, not fast enough for Bill's greedy eyes. The tight fingers give him a long filthy squeeze and Bill's beard rasps under his ear.

"You ought to say thank you." 

"Th--" James gathers his breath and swallows the hot lump in his throat. Then he shoves him away as hard as he can. "Leave me alone, Bill." 

Bill staggers back a gratifying half-step. There is a flash of fury across his face, and then his expression smooths itself into a terrifying blankness. His lip curls up as he buttons his jacket, covering the bulge in his trousers. 

"Of course," he murmurs. "Whatever you say, Mr. Booth." 

Then he turns with a mocking half-bow and walks away.

* * *

James stares after him. He is loaded to the gills with fight or flight hormones, his cock is an iron bar in his trousers, and above it all is a creeping, all-encompassing horror. _Bill has walked._

The door to the gents' swings open as he stares wildly around the narrow corridor and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He is pale except for a high splash of colour at his cheekbones, his clothing is crumpled and disarrayed, and his fingers twitch over a visible erection. He looks like shit. 

In a stall in the men's room he bites his knuckles raw, forcing a reluctant orgasm from his prick with the thought that he'll kill the bastard, wipe the grin from his face, he'll pay for this--

By the time he reappears among the chattering guests, Bill has disappeared. He texts him twice, then steps into the frigid evening air to call his mobile. Then his office, then his home, reaching nothing but the cold, smarmy sound of Bill's voicemail. 

"Bill--I'm sorry--I didn't mean it. Come back. I'll do anything...anything you want. Anything, I--I need you. You're the one who knows best. Please--"

He flings his mobile across the parking lot with a snarl. Mary finds him on his hands and knees searching for it between automobiles. "Darling, are you all right?"

He can't answer her. 

The night passes in a haze of desperate calls and increasingly ill-advised texts to Bill. He falls asleep at four in the morning in a chair in the front room, his battered mobile clutched in stiff fingers. 

When he wakes, there is still no reply. 

Thirty-four hours later James walks into a dawn briefing, eyes gritty and hands shaking from lack of sleep, and there is Bill. The bastard has taken care to arrive before everyone else and take the seat at the head of the table, forcing James to confront him or slink to the far end. James is far enough gone to consider the confrontation-- _how dare he_ , after the hell he's just put James through--but the rest of the fucking team is piling in the door after him and he can't make a scene, not now. He slinks. 

Bill smirks down at his notes for most of the meeting, occasionally thumbing his mobile. He looks disgustingly well-rested and he ignores James thoroughly. James seethes, already on edge from sleep deprivation and protracted panic, and he can't keep himself from glancing at Bill every few seconds like a man afraid a vision will vanish before his eyes. 

As the meeting draws to a close James looks up again and finds himself pinned by Bill's stare. All down the long table people are shuffling to their feet and collecting files, but James is frozen under the imperious eyes, the minute arrogant smile. 

His own voice seems to come from some other body. "Bill. I'd like to speak to you." 

Bill doesn't answer but he sets his mobile down on the table and rocks back in his chair as the others file out. He's claimed the only chair in the room with wheels; one of those ergonomic monstrosities built for someone half again his weight, and he's ensconced in it like a fucking throne. 

"How dare you," James starts, sinking his teeth into the edges of his bluster, but his palms are already sweaty and his eyes want to dart everywhere but at Bill's face. "You think you can just fuck off without notice like we're all just here to kiss your feet." 

The chair creaks as Bill leans back, fingers steepled in front of his chest. He waits. 

There's danger written all over Bill's face but James forges on. He lurches towards the chair and leans over Bill, hissing in his face. "You scrawny sack of shit. I don't need you." 

Bill just rolls his head back on the fucking headrest. He taps his lips with two fingers of his right hand, making a show of stifling a smile. "Would you care to repeat that, Jimbo?"

James swallows. His eyes dart to the door, to escape. "You can't--"

Bill rolls forward in the chair, making James take a step back. He picks up his mobile and turns it between his bony fingers. "I have an hour of your blubbing that says otherwise."

There's an ache building behind James's temples, dampness under his arms. "You wanked to every fucking second," he spits.

Bill's smile widens. He crosses his legs, ankle over the knee, thighs stretching the blue pinstriped suit. The silence expands, broken by the _tik, tik_ of Bill's phone clicking against his ring, the casing spinning hypnotically in his hands. 

James sags against the table like a pricked balloon. His eyes squeeze shut, blocking out the sight of Bill's hand drifting slowly up his thigh. 

But not the voice. He can never block the voice. It licks up his spine and into his ears, sucks him down in a black vortex. "Do you have something to say, Jimbo?" 

"I'm sorry, Bill," he whispers. "I do need you."

"That's right." The chair creaks again, Bill readjusting himself, pleasuring himself. "I think you know what you need to do." 

And James can't tell if it's revulsion or arousal that spikes through him. He shakes his head, instinctive denial.

"If you want me to stay, you'll have to do more than throw tantrums." The voice raises the hair on the back of James's neck, like the implacable knell of doom. He hears Bill set his mobile down on the table, the rustle of his suit as he settles back. Every second leaches more of his resistance away, until his knees fold beneath him and James crawls towards towards the chair.

"Good," Bill murmurs. The single word is a taunt and a nugget of praise all at once, and James digs his nails into his own thighs. He already knows this will haunt his dreams, that he'll spill into his fist for weeks just from the way Bill's voice takes away his choices. Just from the moment when he gives up. 

The carpet under his knees is all too familiar, the stretch of Bill's thigh in the corner of his vision, the snick of his belt and the square ovals of his manicured nails. He remembers the pain of Bill's hands in his hair, and he surges forward to escape it as soon as Bill's cock comes into view. 

The slick red head of Bill's prick slides across his lips, smearing his cheek with filth, scraping across his jawline. The hand that closes around his throat moves too fast to see. Bill's fingertips choke him, tipping his head back at a painful angle. "Slowly." 

James nods against the awkward pressure, gasping for the thin stream of air Bill's allowed him. A long minute later Bill's fingers spasm and he releases him. His pulse pounds in his ears and his cock throbs with every curse his mind concocts. James coughs, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. It only smears Bill's pre-cum further across his cheeks. 

Bill feeds him his prick at the speed he likes, which is too fast for James. His tongue curls around the unfamiliar thickness, and the hand on his shoulder tightens with a jerk. His nose is full of musk and sweat, a bitter tang at the back of his throat that he can't purge no matter how he swallows. His face and chest are burning with a hot flush and he can't get enough air, even before Bill's hips surge forward. 

The hand that curls around the back of his head is worse, Bill's fingers stroking gently through the short hairs at the nape of his neck as if James has sucked him off so often that it's a pleasant routine. As if only James thinks this is the first time. He already knows it won't be the last. 

He thinks he ought to use his hands but Bill is already fucking his face. He tries to suck, to lick at the stiff flesh sliding past his lips, and he knows with humiliating certainty that this is the worst blowjob of Bill's life. When Bill tells him so in obscene detail, his hands clench on the edge of the chair and the sick heat in his stomach blooms. 

Tears are stinging his eyes when Bill twists his hand in his hair and jerks his head off his cock, pushing him down towards his balls. James makes a strangled noise and stiffens, turning his face, scrambling back as far as Bill's grip will let him.

The crack of Bill's hand across his face hits his ears before the pain registers. It jerks his head back, Bill's heavy ring digging into his cheek. The sharp shock of it makes his trapped cock harden with an impossible ache, hips slamming forward into nothingness. 

"I own you, you ungrateful cunt," Bill hisses. "I own your mouth and your body and the fucking air you breathe. You don't get to say no to me." His foot nudges between James's legs and presses hard against his swollen dick, a brief cruel slide, and his teeth flash as James whimpers. He shoves James's head down, breath going ragged as the Prime Minister presses spit-slick lips to his balls. 

"Good boy," he says, the invisible leash wrapping around James's neck again. It will never come off; from now on he has only the rope Bill gives him to hang himself with. 

_You're the boss,_ he thinks, and Bill's cock is in his mouth again, hands in his hair as his hips jerk up, and James already knows the sounds he makes when he comes. Even in the clean air of the conference room he can smell the seedy hotel. He swallows dutifully, a dog licking his master's hand. He is moments away from the exercise of his power, a schedule filled with calls to foreign presidents and policy changes to make backbenchers tremble, but his mouth tastes of semen and ashes. 

"I'm glad you're receptive to my take," Bill says. He's leaning back in the chair again, collecting his notes and his mobile. He casts a last look at James as he rises. 

James is on his knees, legs spread in a vain attempt to relieve the erection Bill won't touch. His hands are shaking, his jaw aches, and his face is a filthy mess. "I hate you," he croaks, but it's a weak protest and Bill knows it.

"Get back to work," Bill says, hand on the unlocked door.

He won't feel guilt, or shame; he won't taste ashes.


End file.
